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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27208090">The Dying (Undead) Detective</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi'>okapi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Were &amp; the Nightwalker [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Case Fic, M/M, Shetland Islands, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, Story: The Adventure of the Dying Detective, Trow - Freeform, Vampire Sherlock, Werewolf John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:40:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27208090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Away at a medical conference, Watson gets a frantic message from Mrs. Hudson: Mister Holmes is dying! Watson rushes back to London hoping he's not too late and wondering how a vampire could be dying anyway? The jack-in-the-box on the mantelpiece of 221b holds the clue.</p><p>For the 2020 Spook Me Ficathon. Prompt: <a href="https://images53.fotki.com/v1657/photos/6/3814576/16181654/il_570xN_1148356706_ewsj-vi.jpg">EVIL TOY</a>. Part of my Were &amp; Nightwalker 'verse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Were &amp; the Nightwalker [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Spook Me Ficathon 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Dying (Undead) Detective</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit">Small Hobbit</a> for the beta.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of 221 Baker Street, was not beautiful. I am not referring to her physical features, which were elegant and striking, nor to her coiffure, which consisted of handsome grey waves which she coaxed, coiled, and pinned into a very becoming crown. She had an admirable figure, a broad smile, and a strength of body equal to her strength of character. There was nothing to fault in her manner of dress, either, which evidenced a keen eye for colour as well as an astute appreciation of fashion tempered with practicality and economy.</p><p>No, I say Mrs. Hudson was not beautiful because, unlike many humans, she was aware of supernatural creatures existing in her midst—and under her roof. ‘Beautiful’ is a descriptor which nightwalkers, like Sherlock Holmes, and <em>weres</em> or lupins, like myself, use to describe humans who live in blissful, beautiful ignorance of the supernatural world.</p><p>I was beautiful once. But back to Mrs. Hudson.</p><p>I often wondered if Mrs. Hudson might be of supernatural origin herself, but when I put the delicate question to Holmes one evening early in our acquaintance, he informed me that our landlady was a follower, a <em>follower</em>, mind you, not an admirer, and the sophisticated reader will appreciate the difference, of Mrs. Beeton. That put an end to my inquiries. The Beeton coven is as strong as it is secret, and I have never had any interest in running afoul of one of its practitioners. Mrs. Hudson’s skill at domestic management indicated that she knew her craft very well, indeed. There was no telling how high she was placed in their ranks.</p><p>I suppose Mrs. Hudson might have been described by some as ‘long-suffering.’ She did face many inconveniences foreign to respectable landladies in central London.</p><p>First, during the hours of darkness, the rooms Holmes and I shared were often visited by singular and, sometimes, unsavory personages. Some were clients, some were informants, some were rogues.</p><p>And some were rats. Not personages of poor moral fibre. True rats.</p><p>Holmes employed a rodent army who served as his eyes and ears—and, when necessary, his sharp teeth—throughout the metropolis. The Irregulars were especially important to Holmes during daylight hours when his nature confined him to a cellar room and its only furnishing, a coffin on a bier.</p><p>I was grateful to the rats. They had come to my rescue more than once. They were loyal but not altruistic. For their effort applied and information supplied, they were well-paid in cheddar and other edibles, and it fell to Mrs. Hudson to keep a varied and ample stock of compensation at the ready.</p><p>But the stress of odd visitors wasn’t Mrs. Hudson’s only cross to bear. Holmes was untidy. He conducted scientific experiments which could be malodorous and explosive. He played the violin, sometimes well, sometimes not so well. When bored, he wasn’t averse to target practice with a revolver indoors. His one great love might be said to be tobacco, and that love affair left behind telltale sequelae, ash, stains, and burns.</p><p>Though Mrs. Hudson was patient and forbearing with all these eccentricities and irregularities, to call her ‘long-suffering’ is to do Holmes a disservice. He would have never permitted someone for whom he had such regard and affection to endure genuine suffering if he could prevent it. And he was not a child. He paid Mrs. Hudson handsomely for the use of the rooms, and he put his not-inconsiderable powers toward the guarantee of her safety.</p><p>Also, he did not ‘dine in.’</p><p>Holmes might sip a cup of tea or a glass of whiskey for appearances but the ‘board’ part of ‘room and board,’ at least for Holmes himself, was negligible.  </p><p>Mrs. Hudson was fond of Holmes. She was an astute personage, too, not prone to hyperbole or histrionics.  </p><p>This is a lengthy argument for why when a telegram from Mrs. Hudson was delivered to me at a medical conference in Edinburgh advising me that Sherlock Holmes was dying and asking would I come at once, I came at once.</p><p>I abandoned Edinburgh that very evening, taking the swiftest train at my disposal back to London.</p>
<hr/><p>I dozed fitfully on the journey, wondering many things: what circumstances had prompted Mrs. Hudson to contact me, why Holmes himself hadn’t written to me with an inkling of the matter, and how a nightwalker could even be said to be ‘dying’ when they were, technically speaking, already dead.</p><p>Foremost in my thoughts was the fear that I would arrive too late to be of any assistance to Holmes. Or that I might arrive in time but still be unable to help him. Holmes was a powerful nightwalker. My abilities, by comparison, were few, weak, and isolated in manifestation. Whatever might be able to harm a nightwalker like Holmes would undoubtedly be able to vanquish me completely, with less effort expended on the part of the adversary.</p><p>Nevertheless, I was more than willing to sacrifice myself for Holmes. He wasn’t just my friend and companion. He was the keeper of my heart, my beloved.</p><p>But what had happened to him?</p><p>Any consternation I felt about leaving the conference, naturally, drowned in the mire of these anxieties.</p><p>I had only been in Edinburgh for a week, and I had planned to stay for at least two weeks. The meetings of societies concerned with human medicine were followed by smaller assemblies for those with an interest in <em>were</em> health and well-being. I had attended both events every year since I’d resumed my medical practice. The previous year, Holmes had joined me at the tail end of the proceedings, and we’d enjoyed a bit of music and, as often happened with Holmes, a bit of mystery. </p><p>The mystery turned out to be one of Holmes’s unsolved cases. The truth about what had happened to the Scottish fiddler Victor Savage the morning after he gave the greatest performance of his career might never be known, but almost a year later, as the Flying Scotsman cut its way through the late October night, all I cared about was the fate of one Sherlock Holmes.</p><p> As I suspected, I did not arrive in time to see Sherlock Holmes himself. The autumn morn was already dawning, crisp and lovely, when my hansom cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson must’ve been on the lookout because she met me on the pavement as I alit.</p><p>“Tell me,” I said, fearing the worst.</p><p>“He grows worse every night,” confessed Mrs. Hudson. “I don’t think that he will survive another.”</p><p>I covered her trembling hands with my own. “Let us have faith in him and in ourselves, my good woman. For now, I want nothing more than a strong cup of tea and the whole story.”</p><p>She ushered me inside and straight to the kitchen.</p><p>“It began with your gift, Doctor.”</p><p>“Gift?”</p><p>“The gift you sent Mister Holmes from Edinburgh three days ago. The jack-in-the-box.”</p><p>“I promise I sent no gift.”</p><p>She stared at me, then her expression turned thoughtful. “Then the plot is even more sinister than I believed. Whoever is at the bottom of this is using Mister Holmes’s esteem for you against him.”</p><p>My blood boiled at this, but I tamped my ire down. Displays of temper would do no one, especially Holmes, any good.</p><p>“The gift arrived from Edinburgh with a card,” said Mrs. Hudson.</p><p>“A card in my hand?”</p><p>“As near as I can tell. The gift arrived during the day three days ago. It was wrapped in brown paper. I left it on table for Mister Holmes. That evening, I went to Mrs. Turner’s and did not return until late. When I returned, I heard Mister Holmes playing his violin. He was playing beautifully, too, so beautifully that I stopped and listened. If you’ll forgive a liberty, Doctor, he was playing how he plays for you.”</p><p>I frowned. “How he plays for me?”</p><p>She smiled. “I’ve gotten to know Mister Holmes’ ways, Doctor, just as I know yours. I know when he’s puzzling out a case, when he’s bored, when he’s melancholy, when he’s angry. It all comes out in how he plays. He can play the same melody ten different ways to reflect ten different moods, and that first night, well, he was playing for you.” A faint pink rose in her cheeks as she added. “Sweet, romantic.”</p><p>“All right,” I said, embarrassed and charmed in equal measure. “That was the first night.”</p><p>“In the morning, I found the gift unwrapped with the card beside it. He must’ve burned the paper. He’d placed the box and card in the centre of the mantelpiece. It was a toy, a jack-in-the-box, you know, a painted wooden box with a metal crank. I tried it myself. As you turn the crank, it plays music, then on the fourth turn, the lid pops open and a doll springs up. In truth, it isn’t a very comely doll. It has a potato-shaped head, a bit of scraggly hair, trench-like features, and a dark, mischievous grin. The doll holds a fiddle and bow.”</p><p>“It sounds like a rather peculiar gift, especially from me.”</p><p> “The appeal is whimsical, I suppose.” She shrugged. “You and Mister Holmes both appreciate music. The song that it played when I turned the crank was the same song Mister Holmes was playing the first night.”</p><p>I nodded. “There’s sense in that. He heard the song from the box, and he wanted to imitate it on his instrument. But why on earth do you say he is dying?”</p><p>“Because on the evening of the second day, the day after the box arrived, he looked ghastly, Doctor. Unusually pale. Not lethargic, genuinely weak. He asked me, well, he asked me to help him dress. I’ve seen my share of malingering, and he wasn’t shamming, Doctor. He needed my help. His movements were slow and clumsy. He bid me leave him, but it cost me greatly to comply.”</p><p>“Did he go out?”</p><p>“He didn’t stir from the rooms, but he did give me a letter to post.”</p><p>“Did you happen to catch the address?”</p><p>“Flaversham’s of London.”</p><p>“The toymaker?”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>I shook my head. I didn’t know what to make of it.</p><p>“I’d made myself a cup of tea and wondering what it all meant when I heard the music. Mister Holmes was playing his violin, but it was a different tune from the previous night. On the second night, it was 'Winyadepla.'”</p><p>“'Winyadepla?'” I hummed a few bars. “Like that?”</p><p>“That’s the one, Doctor. Mister Holmes played with a vigour of which I would’ve scarcely imagined him capable, judging by the pitiful state in which I’d left him. I was shocked. I was puzzled. I was concerned.” An emotion crossed her face, one I’d rarely seen there, and I realised, with a pang, that it was guilt.</p><p>“Did you check,” I didn’t say ‘spy,’ “on him?”</p><p>“Yes. I looked through the keyhole!” She covered her face with one hand.</p><p>I patted the other hand with my own. “Needs must, my dear woman, when the devil drives, and I have a suspicion we are dealing with a cunning devil or his agent in this matter. What did you see?”</p><p>“Mister Holmes was standing before the mantelpiece playing his violin and…”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And the jack-in-the-box was open.” She paused. “And, believe me or believe me not, Doctor, the doll, the jack, if you will, seemed to be alive and playing with along with him! A duet! With a doll!”</p><p>She fixed me with a wide-eyed, incredulous stare, then her face crumpled. “What could I do? Eventually, I went to bed, but they played all night. It was lively. Like a dance hall. If Mister Holmes weren’t in such a wretched condition, I might have stepped lively in the kitchen! But as it was, of course…”</p><p>“No, no. They played the same song?”</p><p>She nodded. “Variations on it. Over and over.”</p><p>“How did you find Mister Holmes yesterday evening?” I knew the answer. Worse or she would’ve never sent for me.</p><p>“In a deplorable state. Gaunt, wasted. Pale to the point of translucency. Dark crusts on his lip. Weaker than before. His voice was croak. His hands trembled. I asked him what was wrong and if there was anything I could do.”</p><p>“And what did he say to that?”</p><p>“He said not to worry.”</p><p>I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Did he play the violin last night?”</p><p>“Yes, last night it was 'Aith’s Rant.'"</p><p>“I’m not familiar with that.”</p><p>“It went something like,” Mrs. Hudson hummed, “that.”</p><p>“Ah, I see.”</p><p>“Mister Holmes also left instructions for me.” Mrs. Hudson retrieved a note from her apron pocket and gave it to me. “I’m to pick up his order from Flaversham’s and ask Mister Culverton Smith of 13 Lower Burke Street if he would pay Mister Holmes a visit at dusk tonight.”</p><p>“Culverton Smith? I know that name for certain. He is the uncle of the Scottish fiddler who went missing last year. His is a planter from Sumatra but also an amateur dabbler in tropical diseases. I doubt you will find him in London, my dear lady. I heard him give a lecture in Edinburgh only three days ago.”</p><p>“I must try,” she insisted.</p><p>“Of course, of course. The good news is that we have some hours before dusk. For my part, I very much want to see this gift of mine.”</p><p>Mrs. Hudson followed me to the sitting room. A sweep of my eyes showed nothing out of order in the room. I went to the mantelpiece. I looked at the card first.</p><p>“It is a very good forgery, so good I don’t know that I wouldn’t be fooled myself,” I observed. “We are dealing with someone with a clever hand. Now let’s see the box.”</p><p>The box was painted with white Scottish roses on a cream background and trimmed in dark green. I picked it up and studied it. I shook it. I put it back and turned the crank.</p><p>It was the song Mrs. Hudson had hummed, tinny and spry.</p><p>Pop!</p><p>As Mrs. Hudson had reported, the resident of the box was a rather ugly little fellow. I tugged a bit, but his black smock seemed securely fastened to the interior.</p><p>“At the risk of stating the obvious, it isn’t alive now,” I said.</p><p>“True,” agreed Mrs. Hudson.</p><p>I looked at the mantelpiece. Then I ran my finger along the edge of the wood.</p><p>“It’s damp,” I observed.</p><p>She touched the wood, too. “Yes. Now that I think of it, the mantelpiece was damp yesterday and the day before, too. I haven’t been in to clean yet. I was waiting for you to arrive.”</p><p>I drew my finger once more along the wood, trying to collect as much of the moisture as I could. I brought my finger to my nose. I sniffed. Alarmed, I licked my finger.</p><p>“Oh, dear God,” I murmured.</p><p>“What, Doctor?”</p><p>“It’s very diluted, but I think this is holy water.”</p><p>“Doctor!” cried Mrs. Hudson. “Why?”</p><p>“Yes, indeed, why would Holmes allow himself to be in a room with a substance that would destroy him?”</p><p>“He would know, Doctor?”</p><p>“Undoubtedly. It’s suicide!” I moved to my armchair and dropped into the seat. “Holmes is not suicidal, but he has been known to be reckless. It must be of a concentration that will only weaken him, not extinguish him outright. But he’s playing a dangerous game. What in the blazes is he up to?”  </p><p>Mrs. Hudson hesitated on her feet.</p><p>I motioned her to take Holmes’s chair, and she took it.  </p><p>“What do we know? We know Flaversham makes toys,” I said.</p><p>“Maybe Mister Holmes wants a replica of the box for some reason,” suggested Mrs. Hudson. “To swap them?”</p><p>“That’s a very good idea. Now, on to Culverton Smith. Maybe this business has to do with the disappearance of Victor Savage, Smith’s nephew.”</p><p>“The newspapers said Victor Savage drowned himself.”</p><p>“Holmes is convinced that it wasn’t suicide and that Smith played a role. Smith was Victor’s only surviving relative and inherited the boy’s family fortune. The police looked into Victor’s disappearance. Holmes befriended an apt police constable named Perez who was of a similar suspicion about the matter. But neither the police nor Holmes could prove anything. The strange thing was Victor Savage’s body was never recovered, has never been recovered, as far as I know. Victor left a note documenting his intention to do away with himself, and he was seen by his fiancée, a young lady who had just severed relations with him, to pitch himself in the sea. On her evidence and that of the note, he was declared dead. By chance, I just saw that young lady in Edinburgh. I would’ve scarcely recognised her. Last year, she was a poor peat-cutter’s daughter, and now she’s riding around in a handsome carriage wearing fine frocks.” </p><p>“People grieve in different ways,” remarked Mrs. Hudson dryly.</p><p>“Holmes and I went to Victor Savage’s last concert before he disappeared. He was magnificent! Such a gifted musician! And the following morning, he was nowhere to be found. It didn’t seem right. Professionally, he was on top of the world.”</p><p>“But sometimes heartache triumphs, Doctor,” said Mrs. Hudson quietly.</p><p>“Sometimes. I know Culverton Smith was not pleased with Holmes’s insinuations.”</p><p>“This is revenge, you think?”</p><p>“It could be but for the fact that Smith won. Holmes never proved anything. The police never brought charges against Smith. Unless there is new evidence, why seek revenge now?”</p><p>“Anniversary?”</p><p>“Perhaps. It has been a year.” I did some calculations. “An exact year, in fact, as of today.”</p><p>“Then tomorrow will make a year and a day,” said Mrs. Hudson. “In some circles, that has significance.”</p><p>I took her word for that. “Well, I can clean up this water, and perhaps there is some way to air the room?”</p><p>“There are many ways,” said Mrs. Hudson sagely.</p><p>“I’m going to do some research, but I want to come with you to Flaversham’s toyshop and Smith’s residence.”</p><p>She nodded, her eyes still on the jack-in-the-box. “It’s an evil toy, Doctor Watson.”</p><p>I shuddered. “Yes, it is.”</p>
<hr/><p>Every two years, Doctors Kettle and Warner put out a new edition of their work on were health and medicine. I had the volume in my trunks and had been looking forward to discussing certain points with my learned colleagues in Edinburgh. I often lamented that there was no comparative work on nightwalker health and wellbeing. Holmes usually met this complaint with the dry retort that no one, including nightwalkers themselves, were interested in the topic. Holmes had a few works, however, on our bookshelves, and it was to those I went seeking answers.</p><p>“Doctor?”</p><p>I checked the clock. I’d been absorbed for hours. “It’s time to go, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Mrs. Hudson?”</p><p>“Yes, Doctor?”</p><p>“When we return, I will need something of you.”</p><p>Her face fell solemn at my expression. “What is it?”</p><p>“Your blood.”</p><p>Flaversham was vexing, and Smith was not at home.</p><p>The toymaker absolutely would not reveal what he’d created for Holmes, and he’d placed a burning spell on the parcel which prevented anyone but Holmes from unwrapping it.</p><p>“Is it musical?” I asked, exasperated. “At least tell me that!”</p><p>He just smiled his wide-whiskered smile and turned away. The urge to lift my leg and tell him what I thought of his stubbornness has never been greater, but I resisted.</p><p>We left a note for Smith with Holmes’s card and returned to Baker Street.</p><p>I explained to Mrs. Hudson my plan, and she suggested some improvements to it, which I readily accepted. I did what I had to do, and then I left her.  </p><p>It was not yet dusk, so I went to the library at St. James Square, and to my great luck, Lomax, full-time librarian and part-time necromancer, was on duty. I took him into my confidence. He was most intrigued about the doll and, to my astonishment, produced some illustrations, maps, and chronicles which were very relevant to my interests.</p><p>So lost was I in what he had to say that time passed quickly, and I had to hurry reach Baker Street before dark settled.</p><p>I passed directly through the entrance and out the back and settled myself, bootless, in a secluded corner of the garden which had a decent view of the back window of the sitting room. </p><p>I waited. Night fell.</p><p>Holmes would be rising. I hoped he would be able to reach the sitting room under his own steam. He would probably ask Mrs. Hudson for help again in dressing.</p><p>My <em>were</em> ears heard the knock at the front door, and in a few more moments, Mrs. Hudson was turning up the gas. I moved silently, mounting the stairs and entering Holmes’s bedroom through the other door. Mrs. Hudson had left the door unlocked and hinges oiled.</p><p>I heard tiny groans which made my heart sick.</p><p>“Is that you, Smith? I hardly dared hope you would come.”</p><p>There was a snigger. “Oh, I came all right. I took the first train from Edinburgh just to get here in time to see you, Holmes.”</p><p>“It is a wise man who knows when he’s bested.”</p><p>“You are no man, Mister Holmes, but you are bested. What have we here? A pretty trinket from your <em>companion</em>?” The sneer in the final word almost made me give up my listening post and knock Smith’s head right off his shoulders.</p><p>“I know what happened to Victor, Smith.” Holmes’s voice was a death rattle. </p><p>“Poor Victor. He was a beautiful boy. He isn’t anymore.”</p><p>There was the tinny sound of the jack-in-the-box.</p><p>“'Trowie Spring.' One of Victor’s favourites. He brought down the house with this, didn’t he?”</p><p>“Put that down! No! Don’t turn it this way!”</p><p>The song played on. I sunk my hand in my pocket and removed an object.</p><p>“Do you have the strength to stop me, Holmes?”</p><p>“You know I don’t!” simpered Holmes.</p><p>“BUT I DO!” I growled as I burst through the bedroom door.</p><p>As I launched myself at Smith and the box, I also hurled a corked, large-bore test tube at Holmes. I brought Smith to the ground, tore the box from his hand, and, catching sight of Mrs. Hudson in the threshold, threw it in her direction.</p><p>I wrestled with Smith and pinned him to the rug. Mrs. Hudson arrived with her skillet and rendered him unconscious. Then she and I set about securing his wrists and ankles and gagging him.</p><p>I looked over at Holmes. He was licking his lips. “Thank you both,” he sighed and held up the empty test tube. “It is enough for now.”</p><p>“Holmes, what is going on?”</p><p>“All will be clear when our second guest arrives. Watson, would you do the honours?”</p><p>Holmes took the jack-in-the-box from the sideboard and returned it to the centre of the mantlepiece. Then he moved to the farther corner of the room.</p><p>“I beg you to, by any means necessary, relieve our visitor of any atomiser or similar misting, spraying, or fountain device he might have upon his person.”  </p><p>I went to the mantelpiece and turned the crank once. When the song had finished, the lid popped up and a creature, much like the doll but very much alive, sprang. He was not large. I caught him in mid-air like leaping rabbit and tore a wand with a perforated head from his hand. I threw the wand in the fire, and it made a diabolic hiss. I held the creature by the neck and did not let him go no matter how it shook and snarled and spit and tried, and failed, to twist out of my grip. It had a tiny fiddle and bow strapped to its back by an intricate arrangement of cords.</p><p>“Mister Annis,” said Holmes, but that was the last word I understood of the exchange which transpired</p><p>Holmes addressed Mister Annis, and Mister Annis responded, in the same unknown tongue.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson and I watched in silence.</p><p>Holmes made gestures to the bound figure of Culverton Smith on the rug. I heard the name of Victor Savage mentioned. Holmes made a gesture toward Mrs. Hudson who had, wisely, I thought, decided to maintain her grip on the handle of her skillet.</p><p>The potato-faced Mister Annis went wide-eyed and opened mouthed at our landlady. He made a little bow in her direction, and if he’d had a hat, I was certain he would have doffed it. Mrs. Hudson curtsied politely.</p><p>Holmes took a moment to retrieve the item from Flaversham’s shop and unwrap it. He presented it Mister Annis.</p><p>It was, as best as I could tell, the offspring of a gramophone and a music box.</p><p>Holmes opened it, and it began to play a song that I recognised as the jack-in-the-box song. He fiddled with a kind of ear trumpet and the sound was very loud, indeed.</p><p>Miser Annis was elated. He reached behind himself and untied the fiddle and bow from his back. Holmes quickly got his own instrument, and they both played.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson and I looked at each other and shrugged and immediately locked arms and launched into an impromptu dance.</p><p>Then Smith began to stir, and Holmes closed the lid of the music box, bringing the festivity to a halt.</p><p>He spoke to Mister Annis again. Victor Savage’s name was mentioned several times.</p><p>Mister Annis swung his head and shuffled his feet but finally gave was sounded like a noise of agreement.</p><p>Holmes turned to Mrs. Hudson. “Would you like to go to Scotland tonight, madame?”</p><p>“No, sir, I would not.”</p><p>He gave a nod. “It is imperative that we go tonight, Watson. Not a minute is to be wasted. I have just the strength to get the four of us there, but I shall have to feed before daybreak.” He spoke the last in an apologetic tone.</p><p>“Do what you must.”</p><p>We grabbed our coats. Mister Annis was content to ride in one pocket of Holmes’s Inverness while the music box was fitted in the other.</p><p>Holmes said some words, and we found ourselves in the dark on a cliff by the sea. It was very cold.</p><p>“Are we on the Shetland Islands?” I asked.</p><p>“You are very clever, Watson.”</p><p>“Not really. But I know a clever librarian. What shall we do with him?”</p><p>“Let’s leave Smith here,” said Holmes of the bound figure at our feet. Then he spoke a few words in a foreign language.</p><p>Mister Annis hopped out of Holmes’s pocket, and Holmes and I followed him a short distance until we came to an earthen mound.</p><p>Holmes refused to go farther, and Mister Annis began to balk, but when the music box was raised in Holmes’s hand, Mister Annis appeared to acquiesce.</p><p>A few minutes later, the earth seemed to open and out of it crawled what might have been a man.</p><p>Holmes tossed the music box into the darkness, and I heard the snick of the box being caught in small hands. Without another word, the earth closed as quietly as it had opened. </p><p>I hurried to the figure.</p><p>“Mister Savage!” I cried when I was close enough to see his features.</p><p>He groaned. “Yes, it’s me. Oh, thank God! I’m alive. And I’m free!”</p><p>Victor Savage was very weak. Together, Holmes and I had to carry him back to where we’d left Culverton Smith. We introduced ourselves along the way.</p><p>“He sold me to the trows!” cried Victor when he saw his uncle lying on the ground. “I’ve been held captive, forced to play fiddle for them night after night after night.”</p><p>“I believe your uncle, with assistance from your former betrothed, endeavoured to convince the world and the police that you’d committed suicide so that he might inherit your wealth,” said Holmes.</p><p>“Hattie? Oh, yes, I believe that. Uncle’s very persuasive when he wants to be, and Hattie, well, she likes nice things. The trows were going to kill me tonight. It’s been a year and a day. That’s the length of a contract for a fiddler in their world.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Holmes. “Your uncle had a replacement lined up. Me.”</p><p>“But you outwitted him?” said Victor.  </p><p>“With a great deal of help.” Holmes looked at me. “And a bit of luck.”</p><p>“Bless you, sir. And you, sir,” said Victor. “And anyone who helped you.” He had his feet under him now. “But why did the trows let me go if there wasn’t a replacement?”</p><p>Holmes smiled. “I offered them a mechanical substitute. A music box. Let us say, an enhanced music box. One with varied tunes and a high quality of sound. It should meet their musical needs without forcing them to rely on kidnapping and alliances with villains like your uncle.”</p><p>“I can’t thank you enough. I owe you my life and my sanity.”</p><p>“Mister Savage, do you want your uncle to be turned over to the authorities?”</p><p>“I want justice, and I don’t want him to hurt anyone else or me again,” Victor sighed and scratched his head, “but it would be my word against his. Who would believe me? Who would believe that I’d been held prisoner underground by a bunch of trows for a year? My uncle is greedy and cruel. He won’t stop.”  </p><p>“Would you like me to take care of him?”</p><p>Victor looked at Holmes, and after a sober moment, he said simply, “Yes.”</p><p>“Watson, you and Mister Savage need to find a boat or lodging. I will join you shortly.”</p><p>“Yes, Holmes.”</p>
<hr/><p>A week later, Holmes met me on the platform. This time, I’d elected a day train so as to arrive after dusk.</p><p>“You were gone too long,” Holmes said by way of salutation.</p><p>“Good evening to you, too, Holmes.” He took my bag. “I did not want to abandon my patient until he was well out of the woods—or the trowie-knowe. I can report that Victor Savage is gaining strength every day. His appetite is strong. His sleep is peaceful. All his vital signs are normal. I just don’t know if he’ll ever pick up a fiddle again. It is a pity. He was such a brilliant musician.”</p><p>“These things take time,” said Holmes.</p><p>“True.”</p><p>I said nothing more until we were side-by-side in the hansom cab en route to Baker Street.</p><p>Holmes snuck a possessive hand around my waist, and I leaned into him. We stayed like that, tucked snugly together, until at last, I broke the silence.</p><p>“I enjoyed the Shetland islands. They are very hospitable folks, at least the ones living above ground. I caught up with some colleagues when I went to Edinburgh. The <em>were</em> conference was just wrapping up, but Kettle and Warner were still there. Wonderful conversations. How is Mrs. Hudson?”</p><p>“Formidable.”</p><p>“Her usual self, then.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>This was apparent when we arrived home.</p><p>“Oh, Doctor Watson! How wonderful to see you!”</p><p>“And you, Mrs. Hudson!”</p><p>“Your boots, Doctor.”</p><p>“Yes, madam, yes, madam.” I dutifully stomped and scraped before going any farther.</p><p>The three of us sat around the table upstairs, Mrs. Hudson with a glass of gin, I with a tumbler of whiskey, and Holmes with a cup of tepid tea which I knew he had no intention of drinking.</p><p>“So, begin at the beginning, Holmes,” I said.</p><p>“I suppose the beginning was Culverton Smith’s greed prompting him to make a deal with a band of Shetland Island trows—"</p><p>“Trows,” interjected Mrs. Hudson as if reading aloud. “Malignant or mischievous fairies or spirits of the Shetland and Orkney Islands of Scotland. Nocturnal. Very fond of music, specifically fiddling. Short, shy.”</p><p>“Yes, Smith convinced a band of them to hold his nephew captive as a fiddler. He paid Victor’s fiancée to go along with the scheme. I tried, and failed, to prove that Victor Savage’s disappearance wasn’t a suicide. The trows keep their captives for a year and a day. When Victor’s time with the trows was up, Culverton Smith needed to replace him, and so he thought of me because he knew I played the violin. Two birds, one stone. Get rid of a busybody nightwalker who had once suspected his plot and keep his commitment to the trows. Smith knew that you, Watson, were in Edinburgh, and so he got the idea to send me that jack-in-box.”</p><p>“Among other things, he was a very skilled forger, Holmes,” I said. “That note from me looked very real.”</p><p>“He was. That’s how he managed to create a believable suicide note for his nephew, and I confess to being completely taken in on the first night. I thought the box was from you. I’ve never had any dealings with trows before. This trow, Mister Eddy o’ Annis, by name, was inside the jack-in-the-box. He, like all trows, only manifested at night. When he sprang, he challenged me to a kind of dueling musical contest into which I entered happily. Culverton Smith had given Mister Annis a perforated wand which was filled with holy water to douse me. The concentration was strong enough to make me ill but not strong enough to kill me outright. Smith needed me weak enough to be captured and transported to the trowie-knowe on Shetland.”  </p><p>“You knew after the first night that it wasn’t truly a gift from me,” I said.</p><p>“Of course, but I had to puzzle out just who was responsible and what it was all about.”</p><p>“So you simply allowed the trow to douse you for three night in a row?”</p><p>“Yes, along with the musical dueling, which, frankly, I enjoyed.”</p><p>“But, Holmes, you knowingly brought yourself to the edge of extinction! That madness!”</p><p>“I needed time!”</p><p>I shook my head in disbelief. “You knew Mrs. Hudson would be worried enough to send for me, didn’t you? And you knew I would come.”</p><p>He nodded. “I am dreadfully sorry for the distress I caused you both,” he looked sheepishly from me to Mrs. Hudson, “but I decided the best course of action was to play along with Smith’s plan and catch him at the end. I also needed time to commission a suitable replacement for the trows’ captive fiddler. I didn’t want to offer myself, naturally, but I didn’t want them to take another poor soul in my stead. Fortunately, Flaversham was able to craft something to my specifications, and even more fortunately, Mister Annis agreed to the swap.”</p><p>Mrs. Hudson and I drank. Holmes pretended to drink.</p><p>“Thank you for everything,” Holmes said after a pause. “And it’s not too much to say I owe you my existence, dear lady.”</p><p>Mrs. Hudson went a little pink and hid her face in her glass. “You’re very welcome,” she mumbled.  </p><p>“My blood wouldn’t work,” I said ruefully. “It would only make you sicker.”</p><p>Holmes’s expression indicated he was as regretful about the state of affairs as I was. He changed the subject.</p><p>“But Mister Annis was quite taken with you, Mrs. Hudson. If you ever fancied yourself ‘queen of the trows,’ they’d welcome you.”</p><p>“I prefer to be queen of my own castle,” said Mrs. Hudson firmly. “And two loyal subjects are plenty.” She gave us a look of exasperated affection that said, ‘especially when it’s you two.’</p><p>“What happened to the jack-in-the-box?” I asked, glancing at the mantelpiece.</p><p>“I gave it to Flaversham,” said Holmes. “You didn’t want to keep it, did you?”</p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>It seemed the right moment, so I held up my tumbler and toasted,</p><p>“To the blood of the covenant, and the landlady, being thicker than the water of the womb, and the greedy uncle.”</p><p>Holmes raised his cup and added, “To beauty being in the eye of the beholder and the blissfully ignorant.”</p><p>Mrs. Hudson lifted her glass and finished, “And to music soothing the Savage and the beasts.”</p><p>We all laughed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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